


The Delights of Valencia

by Arithanas



Category: The Borgias (2011)
Genre: Food Porn, Food Sex, M/M, Master/Servant, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-02
Updated: 2012-05-02
Packaged: 2017-12-12 15:33:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/813161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arithanas/pseuds/Arithanas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written anonymously in reply to a prompt left in <a href="http://borgiaskink.livejournal.com/">The Borgias Kink Meme</a></p><p>Cesare/Micheletto, foodporn<br/>Cesare likes to watch Micheletto eat. And vice versa.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Delights of Valencia

His Eminence the Cardinal Cesare Borgia was walking about and thinking. Micheletto had no way to say what occupied his mind, but that was a habit as they spend long nights in his room doing exactly the same: His Eminence walking, his grim assassin waiting either for his resolution and his order or for his frustration and his hits. Any of those outcomes suit Micheletto just fine. The waiting was what put him out.  
  
His hand felt the table, looking for something edible amidst the leftovers of his master’s dinner. Micheletto's fingers dodged the butter, touched the bread and the pot of marmalade, but those options were discarded; they would hamper his capacity to give a quick response, should it turn out to be necessary. The rounded soft form of a forgotten orange on a plate pleased him. This would do. While his deft fingers cut the rind in small pieces, he kept his blue eyes on the passing form of His Eminence.  
  
Cesare stopped his walk, the sweet smell of the oil distracted his mind from this most important affair that dwelt confined inside his skull; the crunch of the pulp, crushed between Micheletto's teeth, made his guts churn with a raw necessity with had nothing to do with hunger. On second thoughts, as those thin, bloodless lips moved with each bite; as those long fingers cut another slice; as that tongue licked the juice of that palm, Cesare realized hunger could describe the ravenous need that called upon a satisfaction without delay.  
  
Micheletto, oblivious to the fact he had been watched, popped another slice into his mouth, without haste, making it roll against his palate and cutting it with his small incisive teeth. Drops of orange juice were spilled over his lips and his tongue darted to collect them, just a quick turn, like the ones serpents to with their viperish appendages. Micheletto was like the vipers: lean, quick and lethal.  
  
Three quick steps, a scurry hand, and iron fingers around that soft spot surrounded by taut cords of muscle. Cesare delved into those unblinking eyes, waiting for a sign of fear, but all he could glimpse was a flicker of surprise while Micheletto hasten to swallow the mellow, tangy pulp into his gullet.  
  
“Your Eminence?” Not a trace of dread in his voice, just the general trepidation that usually carried him when the Cardinal laid his hand on him.  
  
Cesare only glared at him, his fingers took a slice, and with deliberate slowness bit it, letting the juice splatter in his chin. A mesmerized Micheletto lunged forward to catch the drops, disregarding the fingers around his throat, his eyes glued to the way those lips and those hard teeth chew the segment.  
  
With his free hand, Cesare started to undo the laces of his assassin’s jerkin, his movements proclaimed his power over this lethal man, the one who disregard his own safety to touch him with the caress of a faithful dog. A glimpse of a smile touched his lips as he tightened his fingers around his gullet, just enough to make him feel the force of his hand. Micheletto gasped and raised his head with the pleading expression of the old ladies during prayer.  
  
As the clothe fell over the table, Cesare let him go to take care of his own robe. He shed it with such speed a couple of buttons bounced on the floor and ricocheted under the table. Wheezing, Micheletto followed his lead, dropping the shirt, waiting with bated breath for his new touch, craving for a cruel caress... His fist clutched the fruit while His Eminence practically tore his shirt from his torso.  
  
Cesare took the mauled orange from his fingers and cupped Micheletto’s jaw, forcing him to open his mouth into which he placed the remaining slices before covering it with his own mouth. They kissed with fierce appetite, hands groping inside the breeches, hips grinding, and juice pouring between two chests pounding with frenzied salaciousness. Cesare fumbled the table until his fingers dug deep in the melting butter, before returning it to knead the buttocks and to slide it into the cleft, preparing his way to the onslaught.

Micheletto hold tight against his master, gasping when he felt the fingers, groaning in rhythm with the repetitive invasion, his legs spreading as far as his fallen trouser allowed him. His Eminence, remarking this sign of building wantonness, bit Micheletto’s collarbone, enjoying the stifled whine that signalled him his assassin was put in his place again...

Their sticky chests heaved against each other; Cesare licked the bit mark and added the other hand to the labour. Micheletto, to smother a yelp, buried his face in his master’s shoulder, his mind went wool-gathering the forthcoming assault as those insistent digits stretched him almost painfully, maybe His Eminence used this circumstance to make him stumble upon the floor. He could barely stick out his hands to avoid falling flat on the carpet.

“Kiss the floor, Micheletto,” Cesare told him, his hand polishing his hardness.

At the behest of his master, Micheletto complied, raising his hindquarters like a mare raises its tail when the heat season began; his fallen breeches were an open invitation. The scars in his back were a pleasing view, like a nice, rich Gobelin. They just lacked a little colour; Cesare supplied this absence with a liberal application of marmalade.

Micheletto was distracted by the viscous substance that sluggishly glided over his exposed back; he tried to peer over his shoulder in the moment his master’s knees spread his tights and his tongue lapping against his skin, tasting the sweet, nipping the scars, caressing the hollow flesh with the tip.

Cesare nudged the tip of his battering ram at the gates of that citadel, already surrendered to his power, and lunged forward with a swift thrust, a movement that extracted a fine note from Micheletto’s throat, a sound that started like a whimper and ended like a grunt when he clasped his master’s rod with all his might. Every sound out of that mouth was a true joy.

“Use your hand on yourself,” Borgia said, digging his fingers in his stalwart henchmen’s hip to improve his grip, “I want you to spend your seed for me.”

Micheletto, pinned under this master’s clutches, tilted his shoulders to have a better reach between his legs to make haste and obey. The sensation of fullness was overwhelming and each poke made his breath leave his body in ragged breaths. As his master shoved his way inside his body, the carpet grazed his skin, enhancing his pleasure.

Tasting the last smears of marmalade, Cesare enjoyed each pulsation of that tight place, each stroke of his nipples against the scars. His mind was consumed by the heat and pressure, his spirit was lulled by Micheletto’s involuntary grunts, and his will tried to stand his ground against the deep titillation provided by his henchman’s pleasure.

The battle was already lost.

When Cesare returned to his senses the aloof Micheletto was watching him reverently with the breeches up and one knee on the floor. It was almost as if the pleasure did not touch him.

“Come here and clean this mess.”

Micheletto obeyed, bending himself over the lain form of the Cardinal to lick the sticky, sweet mixture of orange juice and marmalade off that taut flesh.

“Your Eminence,” Micheletto called out between licks.

“Speak,” Cesare commanded, his head still swimming in the vapours of sated lust.

“The delights of Valencia,” the henchman asked, his eyes showed his concern at receiving an unmerited reward. “Due to what deed were they granted to me?”

“None of you have done yet,” the Cardinal Cesare Borgia said, his hand fondling the scarred back of his pet, “but one you will certainly do in the morning.”

Micheletto’s mouth twitched around the corners, a small quirk that could pass for a smile.


End file.
